LETTER FROM AMERICA

By Frank Hursley
Originally published in the Journal of the Flyfishers' Club, London,
England; Reprinted by permission

For the past 30 years I have read little of none of Hemingway. Then, within the past
year, upon discovering how northern Michigan had a profound influence upon his early
life, I embarked on a belated Hemingway phase. In order to enhance this awakened
enchantment with the Hemingway legend, In June I set off to fish the creek at Horton
Bay, where as a young man, Ernest delighted in taking numerous trout from its modest
waters.

We were in the midst of a family vacation at Walloon Lake, a lovely lake where the
Hemingway family summered at their cottage, Windemere, located on the same arm, but
farther south on the opposite band. Born in 1899, it was here Ernest spent his first
19 summers.

At the general store in Horton Bay I had noticed "Breakfast Is Available" scribbled
on a sign and with visions of a stout breakfast I left the cottage early on a pleasantly
cool morning dotted with spicy white clouds. I had barely rounded the first curve of
the driveway when I was forced to brake suddenly. Stepping down the center of the drive
was a family of wild turkeys, led by a scrawny mother hen with watchful eye. They were
as startled as I and with a litany of oaths the mother assembled her little darlings
into a quick step elsewhere.

Reaching Sumner Road I headed toward Horton Bay. If I had turned in the opposite direction
the road would have ended at Walloon Lake adjacent to where Ernest was known to work 12
hour days harvesting crops at the Hemingway farm, Longfield. Ernest's mother built a
house on the farm where she escaped the demands of a large family by rowing the mile
across the lake in order to satisfy her private moments. In order to reach Horton Bay,
Ernest would also row across the lake then walk the four miles to the five-house village.

I reached the general store just as they opened and took a stool at the abbreviated
counter near the rear. I was anxious to fish Horton Creek which crossed the road a
quarter of a mile farther down, but I wanted to absorb the store's 118 years-old atmosphere.
Ernest came here to pick up his mail as well as supplies.

While at the counter I surveyed the store. On the far wall photos depicted buildings no
longer standing in the village. Included was a picture of Jim Dilworth's blacksmith shop
and the Methodist Chruch where Ernest and Hadley were married in 1921. The church had
stood next to the general store and I was told the foundation is still visible. I was
shown a guest register which has entries by people from all over the world who have come
to Horton Bay to revel in the Hemingway association.

I drove down to Horton Creek and parked the car at the roadside. The creek ran through
a culvert below the road and its character was completely different from one side to the
other. Upstream on the other side of the road the water was placid, barely any current
and it was too deep for uneventful wading. On the downstream side the water tumbled out
of the culvert in a rush to reach its destination in Lake Charlevoix not far on. This
stretch had all the appearance of a major trout stream: rock and stone bottom with smart
little eddys and rippling current, and above all, shallow enough for hip waders. I saw
one major problem, however.

Downstream within casting distance a fence paralleled the road ending at each bank.
On a tree limb overhanging the stream a large wooden sign proclaimed "No Hunting or
Fishing". I assumed this restriction originated at the fence line and extended
downstream. If my interpretation was correct, I should be free from a charge of
buckshot as long as I did not penetrate further.

As I donned my waders and joined the Constable, passing motorists slowed to gawk at the
sight of a suited fisherman in this area. by anchoring myself close to the culvert there
was just enough room before the fence to allow a Hare's Ear nymph to drift down in the
current. Much to my amazement and pleasure after several drifts and retrieves I was
rewarded with a modest brook trout, no doubt a distant descendant of the trout that saw
the inside of Ernest's creel. In as much as I dared not violate the fence line I was more
than satisfied to reel in after my one encounted. It was a far cry from the two-pound brook
trout Ernest mentioned in a letter written in 1917.

I drove back past the general store and turned down the road just the other side. Now
paved, this was the irt road of Ernest's story, "Up in Michigan", written in Paris in
1921. The road ends at the bay on Lake Charlevoix where a lumber mill once stood and
where sailing schooners loaded their cargo at a dock. They sailed with their cargo of
lumber across to Charlevoix then out across Lake Michigan to the big city ports. Nothing
remains as a reminder to this long-defunct industry. I parked and walked to the water's
edge and lit my pipe. A brisk, cool breeze blew in from the lake sending lapping waves
to etch their mark in the sandy shoreline. Along the shore modern cottages are clustered
togehter, and out oin the bay their sail boats and sleek power boats lie at anchor bobbing
on the waves. To the west the bay reaches out to a point once frequented by Hemingway on
his fishing excursions and here little Horton Creek joins its waters to Lake Charlevoix.

I drove back up the road and slowed at the last cottage. This was the Dilworth's Pinehurst
where Hadley and Ernest celebrated their wedding reception prior to being driven down
Sumner Road to Walloon Lake. From there Ernest rowed his bride across to start their
two week honeymoon at Windemere Cottage. From then on his life changed, became more
complicated with challenged derived from new and distant horizons. But it was here
amidst this entire area that his deep love for hunting and fishing and his great
reverence fot eh outdoors had its roots. And I believe wherever he was thereafter he
carried with him, tucked somewhere, a special affection for his boyhood haunts.